


Run and Tell All of the Angels (This Could Take All Night)

by luninosity



Category: Iron Man (Comic)
Genre: Academia, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Crack, Gen, Implied Relationships, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 08:42:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony falls through a hole in time and space. In the 12th century, Gerald (yes, the 11th-12th century medieval historian/folklorist/churchman) is writing a book. They get along surprisingly well. Also some implied Steve/Tony in the background.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run and Tell All of the Angels (This Could Take All Night)

**Author's Note:**

> Not my fault, okay? Inspired by a friend's course syllabus, which included both Iron Man comics and Gerald's medieval surveys. Title from the Foo Fighters’ song “Learn to Fly” (as a side note, the rhyming line is “I think I need a devil to help me get this right…”). 95% of Gerald’s dialogue borrowed, with love, from his books _The History and Topography of Ireland_ and _The Journey Through Wales and the Description of Wales._

Tony Stark fell through the hole in time and space on a Wednesday night.  
   
Technically, of course, it was Thursday morning. But it was very, very early Thursday morning, and Tony hadn’t been to bed yet, because he’d been up all night hunting down some lunatic in a colorful suit called, of all things, Power Man, who had left some sort of weird gooey residue all over the suit before Tony had managed to subdue him. He wanted a bath.  
   
Also, it was storming, and lightning had almost hit him. Twice.  
   
When it actually did hit him, the third time, everything went white.  
   
He woke up, still in full armor, on a hillside, in the dark. The first thing he noticed was the silence. No place on twenty-first century Earth was that silent. The night sat on the hilltop like a velvet blanket and denied all distracting sounds.  
   
The second thing he noticed was the night itself. No place on twenty-first-century Earth was capable of that cool uninterrupted darkness, either. No electric lights. No glimmering cityscapes.  
   
Fine. He was some _when_ else. He could handle that.  
   
Tony investigated his displays, which, fortunately, remained intact and functional. Soil and air analysis, combined with a quick scan of local structures, suggested that he was somewhere in the twelfth century, in the United Kingdom. No. Wales. Technically it wouldn’t be the United Kingdom for centuries.  
   
“Fantastic. All right, let’s try sitting up.”  
   
This maneuver led to a pause, in which Tony contemplated the joys of cracked ribs. Briefly, he tried to calculate the force at which he must have hit the hillside, and then gave up. At least it hadn’t been his head.  
   
Morning was arriving; he sat there on the hillside, trying to reconstruct the past few hours, and watched it creep up on him, turning the sky grey first, then hinting at rose and gold. The suit, with a fine sense of narrative appropriateness, chose that moment to inform him that something, or someone, was approaching. Tony just hoped that whatever it was would be friendly. He was not in the best of moods.  
   
It turned out to be a someone, definitely. A man. Tall, thin, dressed in what looked like monk’s robes, carrying a book, or what probably passed for a book in these times. Somewhere between old and young, and surprisingly handsome. Impressive eyebrows.  
   
The man—monk?—stopped when he saw Tony, and they regarded each other for a moment in the dawning light of sunrise.  
   
“Hi.” Tony flipped up his faceplate, and offered a wave. The suit’s built-in translator could speak for him, if he could get the other man to speak; he needed to discover whatever language was appropriate, though, for that to work. “I’m Anthony Stark, who are you?”  
   
The man said something in what Tony was pretty sure was medieval French. Not that he spoke medieval French, but he did speak modern French—well, enough for bedrooms and board rooms, anyway—and this sounded close enough. Okay, they could work with that.  
   
He paused to listen to the translation being offered into his ear.  
   
“My name, sir, is Geraldus Cambrensis, of Barri, grandson of Nest, son of Guillaume de Barri.” Geraldus tipped his head to one side, and regarded Tony with inquisitive eyes. “Are you a fellow appreciator of sunrises, sir?” His tone suggested that he didn’t think so, but might be willing to entertain the possibility. Amazing, how well intellectual curiosity translated.  
   
“Well, no. Not much of a sunrise person, to be honest. I’m trying to figure out where I am, and how to get home.”  
   
“We make no wonder of the rising and the setting of the sun, which we see every day, and yet there is nothing in the universe more beautiful or more worthy of wonder.” Tony was pretty sure he’d just been insulted, but it was hard to tell. Geraldus was apparently a master at balancing intonations, and anyway, what sort of person would judge a man he’d just met for not appreciating a damn sunrise?  
   
Possibly Geraldus felt remorseful about this, however, because he offered, “I occupy a tiny dwelling-house not far from the principal castle of Brecknockshire, if you are in need of immediate shelter. It affords me no great promise of wealth, but I certainly prefer it beyond all measure to the perishable and transitory things of this world.”  
   
“Um…yes, all right. Thank you.”  
   
Geraldus offered a hand; Tony accepted the help, and tried not to wince in pain as he got up. For some reason he had the feeling that Geraldus would notice any weakness and mentally evaluate him accordingly.  
   
“By the way, you may call me Gerald, if you like. I am known at court as Gerald the Welshman. I would very much enjoy the chance to learn more about you, as I find your appearance most intriguing.”  
   
Intriguing…well, Tony had been called worse. And by less attractive people. “Anthony…um, Antonius Stark. Tony. Nice to meet you.”  
   
And together they headed towards Gerald’s house at Brecknockshire.  
 

  
Gerald’s house would have fit into Tony’s kitchen in Malibu, but it was surprisingly idyllic, surrounded by green grass and blue sky and an honest-to-goodness medieval castle looming in the background like history come to life.  
   
Of course, Tony reminded himself, it wasn’t history. For these people, for Gerald, it was now. He should probably find out more about it.  
   
“So…Wales?”  
   
“Indeed. I assume it is not too early for wine?”  
   
“Not at all…Thanks.” The suit had dispensed painkillers already, but Tony figured that, after the way this morning had been going, wine was definitely in order. “Nice place.”  
   
Gerald sat across from him at the small wooden table. “For the most part, the entire land is so. The people would be strong and contented, if only Wales could find the place it deserves in the hearts of its rulers. Or at least if those put in charge locally would stop behaving so vindictively.”  
   
“We have that problem back home, too. We call them politicians.”  
   
“The Welsh are vindictive by nature, bloodthirsty and violent. Not only are they ready to avenge new and recent injuries, but old ones too, as if they had only just received them.”  
   
What a pleasant place he’d ended up in. “Sounds fun.”  
   
“Well…the Welsh go to extremes in all matters. You may never find a worse man than a bad Welshman, but you will never find one better than a good.”  
   
“So which are you?”  
   
Gerald laughed. “Only in part Welsh. Therefore only in part either bad, or good.”  
   
Tony found himself liking this man, who was unafraid to voice opinions with the same scintillating edge that Tony himself generally aimed for, and yet balanced them with a calm sense of acceptance that could look at Iron Man as a marvel, without fear. It was hard not to admire someone so like himself, even across centuries.  
   
“If you are curious, this region produces a great deal of corn. If there is ever a shortage, supplies are quickly brought in from the neighboring parts of England…there is ample pasture and no lack of freshwater fish…”  
   
The corn, and fish, were less important than something else. “You weren’t bothered by my…well, by me turning up. Why is that?”  
   
Gerald looked into his wine thoughtfully. “I call to mind what Jerome said when asked a similar question. You will find many things quite incredible, and beyond the bounds of possibility, which are true for all that.”  
   
“Hmm.”  
   
“Besides, shortly before the coming of the English into Ireland, a cow, from a man’s intercourse with her, gave birth to a man-calf.”  
   
“Oh, thank you. I feel much less special.”  
   
“The careful observing mind will clearly grasp the differences that exist between similar things, and the similarities that exist between different things.” Gerald looked at him over the table. “You are not a man-calf…”  
   
“Thank you very much. That’s always good to know.”  
   
“…but you are a thing of wonder. And I have always thought it worthwhile to give some account of such things which are marvelous in themselves.”  
   
Tony thought about this for a minute. It sounded right, unless that was just the wine. It was surprisingly strong. “I like that. Things which are marvelous in themselves…”  
   
“Human nature is so made that only what is unusual or infrequent excites wonder, or is regarded as of value.” Gerald refilled both their wine cups. “But this is, in fact, untrue. Even minor works may be preambles to that Wisdom which transcends all Wisdom.”  
   
Tony had never met anyone, other than a few supervillains, who could pronounce capital letters; he was fascinated. Somehow, when Gerald spoke about wisdom, and wonder, his lurking edge of cynicism disappeared. There was probably a lesson there, but mostly Tony just wanted to hear him talk, and that was rare, because Tony Stark generally refused to listen to anyone except himself.  
   
Fortunately, Gerald enjoyed talking. Somehow he’d traveled from wisdom to beavers. “…the beaver uses its tail as an oar whilst swimming, and those tails are bare and slippery like a seal’s. In Germany and the northern regions, the holy men eat these tails on fast days, for though the blood of the beaver is warm, its tail is being of a fish, in both taste and color. But what is most interesting, you see, is what these beasts can teach us, for when they are pressed by an enemy, they save the whole by sacrificing a part.”  
   
Tony contemplated this. “What part?”  
   
“Well… he throws away that, which by natural instinct, he knows to be the object the hunter seeks. Thus, in the sight of the hunter the beaver will castrate himself, from which circumstance he has gained the name of Castor. If by chance the dogs should scent and chase an animal which had been previously been hunted and thus castrated, the beaver will have the sagacity to run to an elevated spot, and there lifting up his leg, show the hunter that the object of his pursuit is gone.”  
   
“Oh god.”  
   
“In the east, these parts of the beaver are coveted for their medicinal properties,” Gerald mentioned. As if that might help.  “But in the west, only the beaver’s skin is desired.”  
   
“That’s… good.” Tony finished his wine. “You know a lot about…” _Randomly disturbing things_. “…this area.”  
   
“It is my profession to know the land, and its inhabitants.” Gerald got them both refills. The sunlight snuck in through the glazed windows and sparked purple glints off the rippling surface of the wine as he poured. “My own particular choice is the pursuit of letters, by which I hope to please generations as yet unborn.”  
   
“That’s…admirable.” Tony glanced around. Gerald’s house might be small, but evidently more than pleasure was the goal; if he wasn’t mistaken, the cups they were drinking from were real silver, and the visible bed in the corner appeared to be draped in satin.  
   
Gerald clearly noticed the direction of his gaze, and grinned. “Authors, and especially poets, aspire to immortality. This does not mean that they refuse material rewards when they are offered.”  
   
“A point of view with which I wholeheartedly agree.” Tony raised his cup in salute. “Scholars must be greatly rewarded in this time, then.”  
   
“One might wish. In earlier times the man of letters stood on the topmost step in the hall of fame. Now those who devote themselves to study, which is toppled deep in ruin, or so it seems, and sunk in disrepute, are no longer there to be emulated; they earn no respect.”  
   
“Sorry. I know how that goes. They love you when you’re making useful things like bombs, but say you want to do theoretical wave-particle research…”  
   
“Some of your words make no sense, but I suspect we understand each other nonetheless.”  
   
“I suspect so, too.” They sat in silence for a minute. It was comfortable.  
   
“Any temporal disturbances around here lately?”  
   
“I…don’t quite know what you mean.”  
   
“Anything strange, or unusual? Out of the ordinary?” Oddly, Tony found himself almost hoping Gerald would say no. He was, despite cracked ribs and the eerie silence of a nontechnological world, enjoying himself. How strange.  
   
“You said temporal, did you not? …Caerleon is of unquestioned antiquity. It was constructed with great care by the Romans…wherever you look, both within and without, you can see constructions dug deep into the earth, conduits for water, underground passages and air-vents. Most remarkable to my mind are the stoves.”  
   
It wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind, but…”Stoves?”  
   
“They once transmitted heat through narrow pipes inserted into the side walls…built with extraordinary skill. I find them marvelous.”  
   
Tony considered this. He could probably build a stove. He wasn’t in a hurry, after all. He could even see a spot for one in Gerald’s house, next to the firepit.  
   
“Hey, I have an idea…”  
 

  
Mid-afternoon. There was now a stove, right where Tony’d visualized it. It worked perfectly.  
   
Gerald had regarded the process of construction with alternately, astonishment, delight, and what Tony suspected was slight frustration at the fact that Tony knew things he didn’t. Tony sympathized with this entirely.  
   
Still…he should probably be thinking about getting home, soon. Who knew what was going on in his absence?  
   
Gerald looked up as if reading his mind. “I have been thinking about what you said earlier…about occurrences out of the ordinary. There is a place of that nature, not far from here.”  
   
“Really? Where’s that?” Maybe someone was looking for him, popping in and out of the timestream. It wouldn’t be a surprise.  
   
“At the lake. The local inhabitants will assure you that it has many miraculous properties…those who live there sometimes observe it to be completely covered with buildings or rich pastureland, or adorned with gardens and orchards…”  
   
That sounded promising. “Can we go?”  
   
“Of course.”  
   
It really wasn’t far, even by horse and wagon. Tony could’ve flown there in under a minute, but, he rationalized, he didn’t want to deplete the suit’s reserves. No other reason. He perched on a rickety wooden bench next to Gerald instead and thanked God that the armor kept away splinters. Gerald looked sideways at him, but accepted this choice without saying much, which for him was unusual.  
   
The lake was definitely unusual as well. Clearly a temporal anomaly. The sky just above the water flickered back and forth, between buildings and trees and what seemed to be skyscrapers. Tony blinked at it. He knew that building.  
   
“Hello, Reed.”  
   
“Tony! Are you all right?” The fuzzy image settled into a picture of Reed Richards’ face, in impressively sharp focus. Reed looked away, and added, over his shoulder, “It’s fine, I’ve found him!”  
   
“Camelot again?”  
   
“No…”  
   
“Then you owe me ten dollars.”  
   
“I’m glad you’re making money off of my misfortunes,” Tony grumbled at them, without really meaning it. The sight of the laboratory had stirred up latent homesickness.  
   
“Well, you can come back any time, now, and make some more. We’ve been looking for a while, but it’s hard to be exact at this temporal distance. Just jump right in, and we can close it off.”  
   
“Okay…be right there.” Tony looked over at Gerald, who was watching him, quietly letting him have the moment of reunion despite what had to be burning curiosity. “I guess I’m headed home.”  
   
“Yes…” Gerald looked down at the lakewater, which was gently tapping at their feet. “Here, you know, the offering of water in which to wash one’s feet is an invitation to stay.”  
   
“I did not know that. But I do now.” Tony paused. “Look, you know I can’t...”  
   
“I know.” Gerald smiled. “All marvels have their proper appointed place. May God direct your journeyings.”  
   
“Um…you, too. And…thank you. I mean it. You did a lot for me.” He did mean it. The future wouldn’t be the same, without someone calling him a marvel, not sarcastically or out of flattery, but just because…things were marvelous in themselves. He’d have to remember that.  
   
“It is good to praise others, but it is better to be praised by… them.” Gerald stepped back, making room, but the distance between them stayed the same regardless. “I am strengthened and encouraged by these pleasing thoughts.”  
   
“Pleasing, huh?” Tony grinned at him. “Careful, I’ll drop in again sometime for more encouragement.” He was only half-joking, and Gerald’s expression suggested that he understood. Both halves.  
   
“Tony, come on!”  
   
“Fine, I’m coming!” The suit woke up around him, and he hit the ignition switch, and threw himself into the air. He waved, as he dove into the shimmer of the future; Gerald might have raised an arm in return, but Tony was already back, surrounded by the glow of Reed Richards’ laboratory in New York. A particle accelerator winked at him from the corner, and one of Franklin’s model atoms danced over a disorganized desktop. Familiarity. Home.  
   
“Tony, are you all right?” That was Steve, as always solid and reassuringly present.  
   
“I’m amazing, as usual. Did you miss me?”  
   
“Not at all. I turned on a nightlight and pretended it was you.”  
   
“Excellent, how’d that work out for you?”  
   
“Tony, Doctor Doom was just spotted back in town. If you two aren’t busy…”  
   
“It’s so much fun to be needed by you, Reed. All right, let’s go.”  
   
On the way, to Jarvis, Tony sent a quick request: “Find me any books written by someone called Gerald of Wales, would you? “  
   
“Are you planning to do some light reading, sir?”  
   
“No. I’m going to do a favor for a friend.” Tony grinned, in the suit, where no one could see. “He aspires to immortality.”  
   
 

_”Possessions may pass away, but my skills will live forever. Fame I prefer to money, I would rather have glory than wealth.” –Gerald of Wales, in the Year of Our Lord 1215_


End file.
